149. Time to Choose
149
Time to Choose
W illow
The first thought that shoots through my mind is that my daddy was right. Racing will be the death of me. Then I shut that thought down and pull my shit together as I walk out of the hover, flanked by the males I love.
What are the odds that the last challenge in this hellish contest would involve racing? Breathing in, past the metallic smell of the planet itself, is the faint scent of gasoline and motor oil. We’re going to be racing in antique vehicles with internal combustion engines.
I glance up to the right and left and see all hope of winning spool out of my lovers. They can run forever, lift heavy objects, and use every weapon ever created. Unless it involves heaving these cars to the finish line, though, they have no clue what to do.
Lucky you got me, guys. Valor saved the day yesterday and the day before. Today, it’s all going to be on me.
All of our drones swarm the area as the big screen carrying Zedd’s almost-lifesize image moves to hover near the rear end of the ten cars which are all lined facing in one direction, like at a car show.
“The first team will choose first and so on. Then our staff will show you how to start them and move them into the barn where you can paint and personalize them. Make your choices quickly.”
Gronk’s team is first. I don’t even want to imagine what the three of them did in bed last night to earn enough credits to top the viewer favorites list. Not only does my mind rebel at that thought, my stomach does too.
I’m certain, down to the marrow of my bones, that none of the other twenty-nine people looking at this lineup have a clue as to what they’re seeing. This thought is confirmed when the three of them take one walk up and down the line, staying about five feet in front of all the cars’ front bumpers, and pick one of the newly painted cars. They’re the blue team, so they chose the blue one.
Team two does the same thing, picking a just-painted McDonalds’ yellow car.
Okay guys, I speak to them rapid-fire in their heads. I’m going to take point here. Trust me.
I feel their hesitation. They have to be wondering what’s up, but I’m too focused to deal with that right now. We need to choose the car in the best working order, and I doubt that will be the pretty crimson one that seems to be shouting our name.
As soon as our team is called, I run to the first car in line.
The pedals are different. The gas is just like on Earth, but the brake is a similar long pedal on the left. You need to use both feet to drive. It’s okay. I can work around that.
In my head, I give the guys a tutorial as I slide behind the wheel, turn the key, and give it some gas. The engine’s a bit balky. When I hit the gas and try to drive forward, it stalls out. I’ve turned it off and slid behind the wheel of the next car in less than one minute.
I do this with three successive cars, sensing Zedd’s growing impatience as she tries to narrate the folly of the little Earther pretending she knows what to do with these antique vessels.
Tell you what, Zedd, maybe there’s one good thing about coming from a backward planet. I don’t know shit about hovers, but I can take apart and put back together an internal combustion engine.
By the fifth car, Zedd threatens that I have one more minute. This is the scarlet car, and just as I suspected, it’s an attractive nuisance. It backfires immediately.
“Enough!” Zedd thunders. “Pick.”
The one with the sweetest sounding motor was the one with the most rusted chassis. It will have to do.
“That one,” I say as I point.
I drive it into the barn where we’ve been given a spot at the rear.
I stand with my hands on my hips as I survey the low-ceilinged building. It’s almost as if I can smell the old grease and hear the curses of guys wrenching in the background. My mind is working as swiftly as the fastest computer as I figure out the next fifty steps of what we need to do.
Care to tell us what’s going on? Braveheart asks.
I probably should have mentioned a few things about my childhood.